


you and me got ourselves a problem

by turtburglar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtburglar/pseuds/turtburglar
Summary: By the ripe old age of 25, there are some things that Sansa Stark knows to be true. Namely, that she’s talented enough to be more than just a soloist at the King’s Landing Ballet, that she desperately wants a lead role in Jaime Lannister’s new production of Swan Lake, and that she’ll need to fight tooth and nail to earn it.She has the audition piece, now she just needs the partner and there’s no one else she trusts more than long-time family friend and fellow soloist Jon Snow. What she doesn’t know is why, suddenly, she’s so hung up on the possibility that Jon could be something other than a best friend, somethingmore.In other words, how Sansa Stark gets her groove back.





	1. Go on dust your shoulders off, keep it moving

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and nobody, including the title lyrics, which are from Andrew Belle's 'Pieces'.
> 
> Chapter title from Lizzo's 'Good As Hell'.
> 
> This fic is definitely an amalgamation of show and book canon, not least of all because I needed Jon to be taller for reasons of dance logistics.

The class begins tittering excitedly the minute that Jaime Lannister strides into the studio. Stretching and warm-ups completely forgotten, in favour of the hushed whispers that echo from every corner of the room. Cersei demands silence, but her clipped tones fall against the deaf ears of dancers that have been waiting months to hear what her brother has to say.

Jaime’s handsome face breaks out into a wide grin, clearly relishing the attentive, upturned gazes of the dancers seated before him. He clears his throat theatrically before launching into a speech that’s no doubt been rehearsed.

“I know with the regime change, you’ve all been curious about what the company intends to present this season. As your artistic director, I am pleased to inform you all in person that we will be starting with an original piece – my original piece – _Cignes_.” 

He pauses dramatically, green eyes sparkling. Sansa thinks that he must be seeing visions of fame and applause dancing in his head like sugar plums. Fame and applause should really be on the Lannister crest at this point. Jaime regards the class haughtily and Jon scowls, rolling his eyes at her from where he’s seated across the room. She tries to fight the smile that’s burgeoning and is only half successful.

“ _Cignes_ will be a modern retelling of Swan Lake.” 

Sansa can swear that she hears at least one groan from the back of the class. 

“But this will be different! None of that 32 _fouettés_ bullshit. I’m talking dark, sexy, psychological, thrilling.” Jaime certainly seems thrilled by it, if not by the sound of his own voice.

“Sounds like someone’s seen Black Swan one too many times,” Theon whispers, leaning conspiratorially into her ear. She can’t bite back the laugh that bubbles up, but she clamps her lips together immediately in response to Cersei’s withering glare.

Jaime continues, undeterred. “As you may or may not be aware, we’d already tapped Margaery for the female lead, but due to her unfortunate early retirement, all roles will be subject to open casting. Auditions start on the first of next month.”

Sansa feels all eyes in the room shift to Cersei. It’s no secret that Cersei and Margaery had been at each other’s throats from the moment the young woman was promoted to principal. Cersei herself had once been a principal dancer at the King’s Landing Ballet, but in the tried and true tradition of professional dance, someone younger and more beautiful had come to replace her. Margaery’s penchant for gleefully rubbing Cersei’s nose in her phenomenal reviews certainly hadn’t helped matters. So when a bad shoe left Margaery with a torn Achilles’ tendon and a career dead end, well, it isn’t altogether surprising that people still whisper about Cersei’s possible involvement. 

Sansa, however, doubts very much that there’s any great conspiracy at play. Cersei isn’t foolish enough to risk her position at KLB, she gets far too much enjoyment out of the amount of company-sanctioned torture that is afforded to her as _Maître du ballet_. Nonetheless, when you spend most of your waking hours in close proximity to the same people day after day, gossip travels fast and it endures.

Cersei, for her part, seems completely oblivious to her students’ furtive glances, too busy staring at Jaime with a devotion that most would feel is inappropriate when directed at one’s own twin brother. 

“Gods, the twin terrors are at it again,” Meera mutters, shifting against the floor next to Sansa. Arianne leans in from behind them, her loose hair brushing Sansa’s shoulder, and whispers, “I was in his office the other day and it is wall to wall pictures of them together in like Giselle, Romeo and Juliette, La Sylphide. So fucking creepy.”

From experience, Sansa knows those pictures also take pride of place on Cersei’s mantel. One joking question to Joffrey about those photos of his mom and his uncle and she’d learned to never ask again. 

Arianne and Meera continue chattering quietly until Cersei eventually corrals the class into beginning their warm-up. Sansa’s body performs the moves by muscle memory, but her head is elsewhere. All she can think about is _Cignes_ and Odette and how desperately she wants that part. It’s been a long time since she’s wanted much of anything, truth be told, but now it burns in her like an ember fanned into a flame. Back when she’d been just a silly little girl full of impossibly romantic dreams, Swan Lake had been her favourite ballet. She used to play the VHS over and over again, performing the moves as well as her child-sized limbs had allowed. Swan Lake was the ballet that made her want to be a dancer in the first place and now she had the chance to realize her girlhood dream.

The sudden pain of Cersei’s nails digging into her stomach brings her back to herself. She inhales sharply as Cersei pulls her first two fingers back.

“Abs tight, Sansa dear. Wouldn’t want your _pliés_ to look as sloppy as your attitude,” she says with a thin and venomous smile.

Sansa’s stomach drops, because Cersei will never let her get that part. Cersei Lannister is no small part of why she’s still a soloist after eight long, long years at KLB. Ever since she broke up with Joffrey, Cersei – once sweet, helpful, and lovely – has been openly gunning for her failure. It’s a testament to her reliability as a dancer that she’s even managed to hold on to her position as it is, but reliability does not a principal make.

“Partner up,” Cersei commands from the front of the room.

Theon swings his dark eyes towards her and she takes his proffered hand with a smile. She and the rest of her classmates move towards to the mirrored wall, pairing up into neat practiced rows. Glancing at the mirror, she sees Jon, a couple of pairs down to her left, partnered with Alys Karstark. Sansa can’t help the grin that blooms, because Alys has the world’s least secret crush on Jon and he is so completely out of his depth. As if on cue, she sees a deep blush spread across his cheeks, no doubt in response to some compliment Alys has given him. Unexpectedly, his eyes flit towards hers in the mirror, gazes locking for a heartbeat until hers skitters to the floor, as if he’s caught her doing something she shouldn’t have. Which is ridiculous, she’s seen Jon’s eyes about a million times and she hasn’t done anything to be guilty of.

Before she can dwell on this curious feeling any longer, they begin their exercises. Everything goes smoothly until the very end, when Theon’s hand lands on her ribcage just a little too high, his fingers grazing the underside of her breast. A second is enough for her to know that the touch is accidental, but it’s also enough for her to stiffen and almost fall out of her _pirouette_. Theon, always attentive, helps to pull her back, but the sour look on Cersei’s face tells her that she’s noticed anyway. _Fuck_. 

That’s the other thing. After the complete and utter disaster of her relationships with Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton, she recognizes that her partner work has been suffering. It’s easier with Theon or Jon, but still, an unexpected move or a too-tight grip and her mind travels unbidden to that place where pain was imminent. She’s improving, slowly, but she’s heard the whispers. _Stiff. Aloof. Frigid_. Between that and Cersei’s naked disdain for her, it will take a miracle for her or Jaime to even consider Sansa for anything approaching a lead role.

The class is wrapping up around them and she turns to Theon, offering an apology. 

“It’s okay, Sansa. Really, it’s fine, I know,” he says softly, eyes full of regret. 

Theon had been the reason Ramsay had even known who she was in the first place and he carries his guilt like an open wound. Sometimes, when he’s riotously drunk, he calls her, full of murmured apologies for not doing more or doing it sooner. In the dark, it’s easier to let her gratitude soften her heart and comfort him. She still remembers with crystal clarity his nervous eyes darting back and forth, the roughness of his voice telling her Ramsay would be away for a couple of days, and the dampness of his hands as he slipped her a piece of paper with eleven numbers and two words scribbled on it. _Call Jon_. In the light of day, however, she finds it harder to carry around his pain. It’s too heavy when combined with her own. In any case, she doesn’t blame him. He’d been high off his mind on Ramsay’s coke for most of it anyway. Unlike dear old uncle Petyr, who’d been more to blame and had done less to help her with fewer excuses.

She tears her eyes away from Theon’s when she feels Jon draw near behind her. She knows it’s him immediately both from the way Theon’s eyes shutter – despite their tentative truce – and from the cautiousness of Jon’s approach. He seems to be perpetually mindful of spooking her, even when she wishes he wouldn’t be. She waves goodbye to Theon and turns to Jon, poking one of his still red cheeks.

“So what pretty words did Alys have to offer today, hmmm?”

He weakly smacks her hand away. “I’ll have you know that she was very respectful, unlike some other redheads I know,” he says, eyeing her pointedly. She laughs and drops her mouth open in mock surprise.

“Oh no, is Tormund hitting on you now too? I can see your tombstone now: Jon Snow, beloved by gingers.” His glower only makes her laugh harder.

“He does like talking about my ‘pretty mouth’, but no I’m talking about another difficult redhead,” he grumbles, reaching over her shoulder to flick her low bun, knocking a few strands of hair loose. He’s still sweaty from class and, even though he does not touch her, the heat of his arm against her cheek and shoulder makes her overly aware of the way her clothing shifts against her skin as she breathes. She feels out of sorts, all of a sudden.

“Would you prefer that I talk about your pretty mouth then?” The words tumble out of her, mouth running faster than her brain. _What the fuck?_

His dark eyes widen and Sansa is completely taken off guard when he suddenly breaks into a shocked laugh.

“This is what I get,” he chuckles, “Here I am just trying to invite you to lunch like a decent person and you’re too busy taking the piss.” 

She feels her anxiety unspool its tight grip from around her lungs as he tugs gently at a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her bun. Sansa has never thought of Jon as a sibling, not like the rest of her family, but the gesture is undeniably brotherly. _What else would it be?_ Sometimes it’s almost too easy to slip into the skin of the person she was when she last knew him; light, flirty, and _careless_. But Jon is Jon and she tries to remind herself that she doesn’t need to be careful with him, that he would never punish her for a wrong word or misstep.

She smiles at Jon until it feels real again.

“Unfortunately, I have plans with Margaery, but how about dinner? Yours or mine?”

She feels a breeze when he retracts his hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Mine, as long as Sam doesn’t mind.” 

“Perfect,” she says with a grin before leaning up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll text you ‘round 6.” This is normal. This is fine, they have dinner all the time. Gods, why is she being so weird about this?

As he walks away, she can see that the tips of his ears have gone red.

 _This is fine_.

******

Sansa arrives at Margaery’s penthouse to find that, of course, her friend looks better in recovery than most people look on their best night. Hair freshly blown out and clad in a gorgeous silk robe, Margaery comes over to greet her, somehow the only person alive who manages to look graceful on crutches.

“Gods, finally, I’ve been waiting for _ages_. Come, I got us sushi for lunch.” Her glossy brown hair practically whips Sansa in the face as she whirls back around.

“Should you be running around like that Marg? It’s not even been a month since your surgery!” Sansa rushes after her, ever the eldest sister. It’s baffling to her that someone who had looked so small in her hospital bed not three scant weeks ago is now rosy-cheeked and swinging around on her crutches, seemingly completely oblivious to her injury. Margaery, however, seems to need no help at all, quickly outpacing Sansa and then collapsing dramatically onto her couch.

“Nagging your elder? I always knew you were cheeky Sansa, darling. It’s nice to know that I still have a sense about these things. Besides, this is all doctor’s orders, I promise.” She places a hand over her heart and her crooked grin makes her only slightly less believable. 

“I’m supposed to be doing ‘upper body work’, so here we are.” She punctuates the statement by grabbing a piece of sushi from the, frankly, outrageously lavish spread on the coffee table and popping it into her mouth.

Sansa looks around the flat. There isn’t a hair out of place despite Margaery’s current disability and it even looks as though the space has been redesigned for the upcoming season, bright floral linens having been replaced with rich velvet. Sansa stifles a giggle; Margaery never does anything by halves.

She takes a seat next to her friend and offers, “We miss you at the company.” Margaery responds with an arch smile.  


“Well, that’s very sweet, but I’m on to bigger and brighter things.”

“Like what,” Sansa asks over a mouth full of salmon sashimi.

“With Granny’s help, I’ve been able to secure a couple of modeling contracts, for once this is off, obviously,” she says, nodding at the boot on her left foot. “And who knows, maybe I’ll teach eventually, we’ll see.” 

Sansa munches thoughtfully on the sushi as she listens to her friend discuss the latest developments in her life. Margaery has always spoken freely and at length about herself with the kind of confidence and delight of someone who spent their whole life being told that they were cleverer, more interesting, and more beautiful. Sansa is inclined to agree; Margaery has the kind of intrinsic charisma that she can only hope to emulate. Nonetheless, she can tell that Margaery is growing restless with the current conversation.

As expected, she huffs, “Enough about me! Tell me about what’s happening at KLB. How was class?” If there is one thing that Margaery enjoys discussing more than her incredibly glamourous life, it’s gossip.

“Cersei was a peach, as per usual,” Sansa says, lifting her top to reveal two purple smudges, the result of Cersei’s sharp fingers.  


Margaery exhales audibly, but her eyes practically dance with the devious glee she displays every time they talk about Cersei.  


“Seven Hells, she is such a twat!” Sansa wants to interrupt, but Margaery holds up a manicured hand. 

“No Sansa, I’m serious! You’re so bloody talented, you are! I’m not friends with mediocre people, so that speaks highly of you for one.”

Sansa is pretty sure that the only reason Margaery even spoke to her in the first place was to piss off Cersei, but that was three years ago and Margaery still seems interested in her company. It’s probably safe to assume that she genuinely thinks of her as a friend at this point, but Sansa’s been wrong before.

They continue to chat on and off about Cersei, Jaime, and everyone else. After all this time, Sansa had begun to believe that she’d become adept at masking her true feelings, but Margaery surprises her in the middle of a conversation about _Cignes_ by gasping.

“Sansa Stark, you minx, you want the lead! You want Odette.”

“Oh, erm, I don’t really know – "

“Sans, you would be perfect. I can see it now: Sansa Stark as Odette, beautiful, fragile, resilient, powerful. You’d be brilliant.”

“That’s very flattering, but I’m just a soloist,” Sansa demurs. She knows that it’s the truth, that her chances are slim, but Margaery’s words have roused her ambition and it slithers hungrily in her gut. _I would be perfect_. She tries to push it down; wanting things hasn’t exactly gone well for her, historically. 

“Besides, Cersei hates me and Jaime thinks I’m frigid and stuck up. I just don’t think it’s very realistic.” 

“ _Fuck realistic_ ,” Margaery bursts out, slapping the table hard enough to make Sansa jump. 

“Do you think I got where I am by being realistic? No, it was because I believed in myself... and also Granny’s money,” she says with a sly smile. “But believing in myself made her investment worthwhile!” 

Margaery is so full of righteous vigour that she may as well be giving her first speech as the new Prime Minister of King’s Landing. 

“I know you’ve been through the wringer and it’s left you doubting yourself, but honestly, Sans, you’re amazing and if you want this, you need to do it. You’re 25, do you want to be a soloist forever?”

No, no she does not. She feels a million years younger and a million pounds lighter after hearing all the wants and beliefs that she keeps hidden away in some safe secret part of her repeated back to her; to be told that she’s right to want more, that she deserves more. She can’t remember the last time she’s felt that to be true. Sansa looks at Margaery’s bright eyes and pink cheeks and for once feels the support she’d sought out in all the wrong places. She exhales slowly through her nose.

“Alright, I’ll audition,” she says.

Margaery nearly squeals with delight.

“Brilliant, now be a dear and grab my laptop, I have the _perfect_ audition choreo,” she says with the sudden seriousness of someone who’s been planning this for much longer than this one conversation. Hells, she really could be Prime Minister.

Sansa chuckles, shaking her head as she goes to grab the laptop off the kitchen island. She can’t find it in her to be mad at Margaery for being, perhaps, overly invested in her success. That she’s been thinking about this long enough to have already picked out an audition dance makes Sansa swell with pride, clearly, Margaery must see something in her.

Margaery opens a YouTube link that’s bookmarked ‘SANSAN AUDITION’ and merely smirks at Sansa’s raised brow. Watching the video makes her equal parts shocked and pleased because Margaery is right, the choreography is perfect. It is also very, very sexy. A kind of sensuality that Sansa has never really expressed in her dancing and certainly hasn’t felt in her personal life in a long while. The discomfort tugging at her insides still isn’t enough to blind her to the truth, which is that this dance is everything she needs. It’s technical and fluid in a way that she knows will be to the advantage of her long limbs, it’s balletic with enough lifts to show her range, and it flawlessly captures the eroticism that Jaime wants. 

The more she watches, the more nervous she feels at the alienness of the moves, of the emotion, but the more committed she becomes. She can see it all unfold before her; if she dances this and dances it well, Cersei and Jaime will have to at least give her a fair shot.

When the video ends, she turns to Margaery and declares with a conviction that masks her rapid heartbeat and sweaty palms, “I’m fucking doing it.”

Margaery does a little dance in her seat then taps a finger to her lips, brows furrowing in thought.

“So here’s the follow-up question, who are you going to get to do this with you?”

Sansa freezes. Somehow, despite watching all three minutes of an incredibly intimate partner dance, it is only just now occurring to her that she will need to find a man to perform this with. Margaery, responding to the shock she’s no doubt telegraphing on her face, gently offers, “I know it sounds like nepotism, but I’d suggest Loras.”

Loras is the ideal partner in all ways but the most important one. He’s a principal dancer already and, therefore, an extremely experienced partner, he’s got Prince Charming looks to spare, and they get on well. But, when Sansa had first started at KLB, she’d been half in love with him for the better part of a year. She'd also been completely oblivious to the – in retrospect, extremely open and obvious – fact that he preferred men. Her cheeks flame in embarrassment just at the thought of dancing this with him.

“I don’t think so, maybe someone I know better,” she counters, trying to word her refusal in such a way that Margaery won’t be offended by the suggestion that she doesn’t want to partner with her brother.

Margaery hums contemplatively. “Maybe Theon then, he’s handsome and you’re close right?”

The idea of being trapped with Theon for days on days in a room too small to contain either of their grief and rage makes her throat close up. If she’s being honest with herself, the list of men she’d feel comfortable dancing like this with is so short as to be only one name long. When she thinks about someone she feels safe with, someone who’d never hurt her, someone she trusts implicitly, there’s only one man who fits the bill.

“What about Jon,” she asks, wording it as a question despite the fact that she’s already decided. The strange feeling that she should hide her certainty from Margaery is discomfiting for reasons she can’t quite puzzle out. A feeling that certainly isn’t allayed when her friend bursts out laughing. Not her pretty, bubbly, social laugh either, but a deep belly laugh.

“What?” Sansa frowns at Margaery, affronted on Jon’s behalf. 

“He’s just as handsome as Theon and a better dancer even!” She’s struck by the completely illogical feeling that Margaery has insulted her personally. While it’s undeniable that she and Arya make fun of Jon for all manner of things, they’ve earned that right. What does Margaery know anyway?

Margaery’s deep brown eyes glimmer bronze in the midday sun. “Someone’s excited,” she says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“No! Well, yes, but an appropriate amount.” Sansa huffs and rubs the bridge of her nose. It’s ludicrous of her to feel this flustered. Of course she’s excited, but only for the possibility of the performance and their success and if the feeling stirring in her differs from the excitement she’s felt before, it’s only because of how badly she wants this part. For Margaery to even suggest otherwise is nonsensical, frankly. 

Jon is the man she’s known since before he was a man, the dork who wears Harry Potter glasses and still reads the newspaper, for fuck’s sake. The man who was once her brother’s best friend and who is now irrefutably hers. Sure, she’s not completely blind, she knows that Jon is objectively attractive. She sees the way women fawn over him and sometimes when they watch a movie on his tiny couch and she leans against the solid warmth of him, she might even understand it. But Jon is not an option for _that_ , although he is her only option for this.

Margaery stops chuckling long enough to look at Sansa, clearly reading something on her face that makes her school her features into something that at least partially disguises her mirth.

“Oh Sansa, I’m just teasing darling, I swear. You and Jon will make a wonderful pair and I’m sure he’ll be a phenomenal partner. It’s just the idea – ” she breaks off pressing her slim fingers to her twitching lips for a moment before continuing. “The idea of you asking Jon Snow, pouter in chief, a man who’s known you long enough to have walked in on you in your training bra, to dance this with you.” She is breathing in a manner that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

Sansa cannot express how much, at this moment, that she regrets telling Margaery that story.

“I will have you know that Jon and I are very mature and we have a normal, healthy, _platonic_ relationship and I’m sure he doesn’t even remember that!” The latter part rushes out of her in one mortifying breath. She tries to carry on unbothered. 

“We even have dinner plans tonight, so I’ll ask him then.” She can be brave. She can be strong. She can do this. _She will do this_.

“Oh my gods,” Margaery bursts out laughing again, “Can you Insta story his reaction?”

“Margaery!”


	2. Fell in love with the fire long ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a big thank you to everyone who read and commented on this story. We'll see if my social and anxiety and I get around to responding to comments, but if not, please know that I do read them and they brighten my day!
> 
> Next, this chapter is from Jon's POV, and the chapters will alternate POVs from here on out.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ******
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's 'Would That I'

Jon leans his forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water run down his temples and watching it circle the drain. Between the errands he’d run after class, walking Ghost at least three times, and the gym session with Gendry, he’s done his level best to exhaust himself, but somehow that still hasn’t managed to shake the nervous feeling out of his bones. A feeling that’s been tapping a steady tattoo against his skin, demanding to be acknowledged since he’d spoken to Sansa.

_Would you prefer that I talk about your pretty mouth then?_

Gods, that line’s been on repeat in his mind, like a mantra. Only, it’s done everything but center him. With a heavy sigh, he pushes his hair back and turns off the tap. It had been a joke, obviously, and one that she’d clearly been embarrassed by the moment she’d said it. No amount of time will make it any less jarring to see her be so self-conscious, so different from the cheery girl he’d left behind with the rest of the Starks. But she’s also different from the wisp of a person who’d been waiting for him on her landing almost a year ago. He’s learned over time that Sansa evolves like the seasons, gradual and deliberate. While the person she is now is built on the foundation of who she’s been, she’s still a different beast entirely. 

Sansa teases and laughs – dazzling and genuine – like she used to, but he knows that behind her smiling face, her mind is running a mile a minute, parsing out the exact right thing to say and the possible consequences for choosing wrong. If she’d known what his answer would have been, she never would have posed the question, even as a joke. He never wants to be in the position to cause her to regret anything, so he just needs to get over this idiotic crush before he ruins everything. He wishes he could go back to before, to when this hadn’t been a problem. His memories of her from Winterfell are mostly of watching her back as it disappeared out the front door, off to one of her myriad obligations. When Robb had still been alive, it had been easier to see Sansa as an extension of him, as nothing more than Robb’s little sister. Then during that year where it had mostly been just the two of them things had changed – for him at least – and it’s godsdamn inconvenient, if he’s being honest.

He steps out of the shower, using a towel to scrub at his hair and beard and then wrapping it around his waist. Fumbling for his glasses, he checks the time on his phone. It’s late enough that Sansa should be on her way soon, but there’s still more than enough time for him to try to unwind and practice acting like a normal person who doesn’t think about pressing her into his cheap couch and doing all manner of unspeakable things. There’s noise outside the door – from the kitchen, it sounds like – and if Sam is puttering around the kitchen, then surely there’s delicious hot coffee out there too.

Exiting the bathroom in a puff of steam, Jon can barely make out the open fridge door through his still foggy lenses. While Sam rummages in the fridge, Jon makes a beeline to the coffee machine, where a half-filled pot is waiting. The coffee’s cold enough that he can take a large gulp from the cracked mug he fills. A gulp that he immediately spits it out into the sink.

“ _Fuck_ , what the hells is in this, Sam?” he asks, wiping his tongue hopelessly on his forearm.

The refrigerator door slams shut next to him.

A voice that is most definitely not that of his flatmate says, “I’ve got no fucking clue.”

“Gods, fuck, Arya! What are you doing here?” He’s fully shouting and clutching at his heart like he might keel over at any moment. His heart is beating so fast that anyone who could feel it pounding would assume he’s just run a four-minute mile. He glances over to Ghost who’s lounging on the couch, completely unbothered. Some guard dog you are, he thinks bitterly.

Arya grins at him and, through a mouth full of something she’s scavenged from the fridge, says “You gave me a key, remember?”

Of course he remembers, that doesn’t mean he expected her to sneak in at all hours of the day! Although he supposes that he should have known better, Arya had always made a habit of sneaking in and out of places.

The first time he learned of her talents had been about a month after his mother’s funeral, when he’d already been at Winterfell for some time. Robb had always been the gregarious Stark and he’d pushed and prodded at Jon’s grief and self-isolation until he’d been all but forced to submit to his friendship. The other Stark children, however, had remained distant. He still remembers how they used to stare at him with such naked pity, as if they could see the ghost of his dead mother in his very face. He’d begun to feel like a ghost himself. Then one night – after curfew, of course – he’d heard rapping at his bedroom window only to find a seven-year-old Arya standing in the yard with a handful of pebbles. She'd guided him from her spot on the lawn, instructing him on how to sneak out the window, and led him to a part of the woods that opened onto a valley.

“I like to come here when I’m sad,” she’d said with a youthful straightforwardness.

The valley, suffused with moonlight, had been as wild as it was beautiful, but it had been the tufts of blue roses that had made his breath catch. They had been his mother’s favourite and the sight of them had made him cry in a way he hadn’t even been able to when they’d lowered her into the ground.

They had been inseparable after that and he’d encouraged and benefitted from her sneakiness in equal parts, eventually dragging Robb along for their capers.

But sometimes, like now, her penchant for stealth could be really fucking annoying.

Arya turns back to the fridge to riffle around some more, pointing to a roast chicken.

“Can I have this?”

“No,” Jon replies quickly. “It’s for dinner later. With Sansa.”

Arya gives him a strange look. 

“Gonna put some candles and a table cloth out too?”

Entirely unbidden, his mind floods with images of Sansa after class, her cheeks pink and eyes bright, the feel of her silky hair between his fingers. _What is wrong with you, man?_

He suddenly feels too exposed under the weight of Arya’s gaze and wearing only a towel is certainly not helping matters. He needs to find some real clothes and put some layers between Arya’s raised brows and this restless feeling that prowls under his ribs.

“Don’t be absurd; Sansa and I hang out all the time. You’re just jealous that she says I’m her best mate,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads towards his bedroom.

“Oh please, I’m her sister, you can’t compete with that. Also, if being your best mate means spending all her time with you, well then that’s her mistake to make,” Arya says snottily.

Jon returns to the kitchen in a freshly laundered pair of sweats and some kind of band shirt that had come from the floor, but that he hoped still smelled reasonable.

“Remind me why you’re here again then?”

She stares at him and deadpans, “For the food obviously.” They watch each other for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. Jon goes to ruffle her hair and she slaps his hand away.

“Don’t you dare, Jon Snow,” she warns, though her lips are still quirked upwards.

Behind them, a door opens and Sam shuffles into the kitchen. He’s wearing his noise-cancelling headphones and carrying four textbooks so large that Jon is pretty sure that he could use them as free weights. Each of those heavy tomes nearly hits the floor when he finally notices that Arya is standing next to Jon. Sam’s face is so positively bewildered that his instinct is to laugh, but something about the tense line of his flatmate’s shoulders keeps it lodged in his throat.

“Oh, er, Arya gosh, I didn’t know you’d be stopping by today, sorry.” His tone is meek, but Sam is essentially shouting over the sound of whatever must be blasting through his headphones.

Arya, for her part, has the good grace to look at least somewhat apologetic as Sam continues his nervous babbling. Jon steps over to him, peeling one headphone away from his ear so that Sam can hear him.

“Yeah sorry mate, I didn’t know she was here either or I would have warned you first,” he says, gently taking some of Sam’s textbooks and placing them on the worn kitchen counter. With a hand now freed, Sam fumbles for his iPhone, pausing the music, and removing his headphones.

“What’s all this about,” Jon asks, gesturing to the books.

Sam sighs and rubs at his eyes. He offers Jon a half-hearted smile, then drops the other two textbooks on the counter and more or less collapses onto a stool.

“Trying to get some studying in before I head back to the hospital,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment so prolonged that Jon wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

Arya cracks open one of Sam’s hefty books and nods towards him.

“Is he always like this?”

“I’m still awake, you know,” Sam protests, but it sounds more like a yawn than a rebuke.

Jon takes stock of the deep purple circles under his friend’s eyes, of his threadbare pyjamas, and his inside out shirt. 

“Sam. When was the last time you slept?” 

Sam opens one bleary eye, his refusal to answer speaking volumes. Jon slants his own eyes to the nuclear reactor fluid masquerading as coffee. “I guess that explains that,” he says, gesturing towards the cooling pot.

Sam closes both eyes again, but the set of his mouth is undeniably sheepish.

“Ah, yeah, I may have added like a cup of instant espresso to the pot once it was done.” 

If Jon could see himself, he’s pretty sure his eyebrows would have disappeared into his hairline. Next to him, Arya looks up from where she’s flipping through one of Sam’s textbooks. She wrinkles her nose and he knows that it’s not from whatever undoubtedly gruesome image she’d been looking at moments before.

Jon slowly slides the coffee pot away from his exhausted friend.

“Look, Sam, now I didn’t go to med school, but even I know that a doctor pretty much stops being useful once they’re dead. So how about we put down the books and napalm coffee for a minute and just take a nap.”

He glances at Arya and then eyes the couch meaningfully until she scampers over to grab a blanket, wrapping it around Sam’s shoulders. He clasps the blanket so tightly around him that he reminds Jon of those hikers who get lost in the woods for weeks. Eventually, Sam rises from the stool and Jon lays a hand on his back and gently leading him back towards his bedroom.

“Sansa will be over in a bit, but I swear we’ll be dead quiet and you can get a good couple hours of sleep.”

Sam sighs again, like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. 

“Fine, but don’t throw away my coffee, I’ll need it when I wake up,” Sam slurs sleepily. Jon smiles after him. Between the unpredictable hours of Sam’s residency and Jon’s own busy schedule, it feels like they’ve barely seen each other since Jon moved in. It’s odd to think that he misses his friend more now that they’re living together than when they were miles and miles apart. He makes a mental note to rectify that sometime soon. Maybe he’ll even be able to force Sam to eat a real meal. A man can dream.

Arya eyes Sam’s door warily.

“Should we go make sure he’s still breathing?”

Jon shakes his head fondly.

“No, he’ll be fine. He’s just a tad anxious and every once in a while it catches up to him.”

“Honestly, I’m impressed that he’s still standing if he’s been drinking that awful concoction.”

“Sam’s an impressive man.”

He means it too. There are many things that Jon admires about his friend, including his unflagging ability to just keep trying despite being borderline terrified of almost everything. He’d once overheard Ned Stark tell Bran that a man could only truly be brave when he was afraid and, if so, Sam might be the bravest man he’s ever met. Jon wonders what Ned would think of his decisions. The way he’d run from almost every complication and towards every fight, as if to punish himself for the former. Until he’d become so tangled up in Sansa that staying was the only option worth considering. He doubts Ned would approve of that one. He’d doubtless be a better man if Ned were still alive, if Robb was. Sam can only dole out so much advice on his own.

Arya only stares at the door, not entirely convinced.

“Why are you here anyway,” he asks as a distraction. He feels responsible for his friend’s privacy, especially considering he’s to blame for Arya being here and scaring Sam half to death in the first place. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be staying at Sansa’s?” 

She shrugs, finally turning away from the door.

“One, I’m deeply wounded. Here I was thinking you enjoyed my company.” She pauses only long enough to rifle through his cupboards, tiny fist pumping in the air when she emerges victorious with a bag of crisps.

“And two, I’d bet that I’m here for the same reason that you’re not heading to hers later.” She turns to face him, her wide grey eyes sly with the borderline preternatural knowledge of his innermost thoughts.

“Petyr,” he says and she repeats the name as though it is an affirmation. 

Jon knows a great many things about Sansa. That her favourite colour is orange, that she loves lemon sorbet so much she once made herself sick off it, that she’s far cleverer than she gives herself credit for, and that she insists on watching every prestige television show even though she hates most of them. The particulars of Sansa’s arrangement with Petyr, however, remain entirely opaque. 

Despite knowing each other half their lives and everything that has happened in the last year, their relationship still feels as delicate as spring snow. It’s been carved into a careful maze of lines that have been painstakingly drawn by every argument, lines that neither dares to cross anymore. Hers are named for Petyr and Ramsay and his for Ygritte and the Free Folk Company. He’s gleaned enough, however, to know that the brownstone that Sansa lives in was bought and furnished by Petyr. Whenever he’s there, he can’t quite shake the feeling that Petyr might be lurking around every corner like an unwelcome shadow. Sansa’s clearly done her best to add personal touches to the space in an attempt to make it feel like hers, but Petyr lingers like a bad smell. Clearly, Arya must feel the same way.

She tosses the bag of crisps at him and he fumbles to catch them, startled. 

“Well come on then,” she says, plopping inelegantly onto the couch.

He rips open the bag and takes a seat next to her.

******

There’s less than an hour between Arya's departure and Sansa’s knock on the door. He opens it to find her kneeling on the beige hallway carpeting, fishing around for something in her purse. She looks up when she notices him and the full force of her smile makes his heart kick in his chest. _So bloody inconvenient._

“Quick,” she says, throwing two Cornettos at him. “You have to get them in the freezer!”

Her sense of urgency is infectious and he rushes back into the kitchen. She follows behind, giggling the entire way at his fumbling attempts to open the freezer before the ice cream melts all over him. Ghost immediately trots up to her, butting his head against her hand until she kneels to scratch him behind the ears. Total traitor, that one.

“Sansa!” He doesn’t mean for it to come out in a whine, but here we are. Sansa’s almost doubled over with laughter, but she straightens, a hand delicately pressed to her abdomen in a futile attempt to physically hold the laughter in. 

“I’m sorry, I wanted to bring dessert and I thought I’d bring your favorite, but then, well, I didn’t really think it through?” She sounds about as confused by her decision as he is. He fights the chuckle bubbling its way up his throat, trying to keep his face stern while he washes some chocolatey ice cream off his hand. She takes a seat on the same wooden stool that Sam, still blessedly asleep, had sunk into earlier. She seems to be completely unaffected by his chastising look and just smiles and smiles, all cheekbones and endlessly blue eyes. A smile pulls at his lips despite himself. When he flicks his wet fingers towards her she can only gasp at him in shock, blinking repeatedly to shake the droplets of water free from her fair lashes.

“All’s fair,” he says.

She smirks at him, her lips full and pink.

“Oh? And which is this? Love or war?” She tilts her head to the side, an unconscious gesture she repeats whenever she teases him. The movement shakes loose a tendril of hair and it curls against her cheek like a river of copper. He wants to tuck it back behind her ear. He wants to trace its path down to the hollow of her throat, to her collarbones, and lower still. He wants to make her gasp for an entirely different reason. Instead, he just clenches and unclenches his right hand.

“Why not both.” Hells, has his voice always sounded this hoarse?

Her eyes flit between his, considering.

“Pretty words from a pretty mouth.” A flush creeps up her neck and her eyes widen, belying the teasing curve of her grin. “Poor Alys never stood a chance.”

She never wears revealing clothing outside of the studio, but dancing with her has been a sufficient teacher. He knows that, somewhere beneath the thin material of her loose jumper, the same flush is spreading down the pale skin of her stomach. His hands are curled against the edge of the countertop, his elbows bent, sloping his body across the kitchen island and towards hers. The remaining space between them feels elastic, both too little and too much, all at once. His fingers tap restlessly on the underside of the counter’s edge and he finds himself caught completely flatfooted by the thought that the space between them might be the only thing keeping him from doing something irresponsible.

Placed haphazardly in the mess of the counter behind him, a timer rings. _Thank the Gods for that._

“The chicken,” he says. It sounds like a sigh of relief rather than the explanation he’d meant it to be. She finally breaks eye contact, popping around the island and to grab dishes and cutlery. When he lays the chicken out on the counter, she raises a brow and the obvious divot of missing breast meat.

“Arya was here earlier, as you’ve surely guessed.”

“I swear I’ll never understand how someone so small can eat so much! She’s like a garbage disposal in a skin suit. Honestly, you should get Sam to take a look at her, there might be a case study there.” She laughs quietly at her own joke, serving herself from the dish of chicken and roasted veggies.

“She can’t have been that hungry, she didn’t even stay for dinner.” Jon takes a seat on the other stool. Next to him, Sansa is daintily cutting into her chicken, the total opposite of the way Arya had torn into that bag of crisps like a wild animal. If he didn’t know better, he’d doubt they were sisters at all.

“Well, she’s off to the 7 o’clock showing of that new Avengers film anyway. I imagine she’ll eat at the cinema.”

Jon huffs out a surprised breath and Sansa looks at him questioningly.

“It’s just that Gendry is doing the same thing at the same time.” The look on her face is one of pure skepticism, but she still asks, “Do you think...” The rest of the question trails off, as though too preposterous to even finish.

“No,” Jon says.

“No, absolutely,” she repeats. “It’s a very popular franchise, complete coincidence.”

“Besides, they don’t even know each other,” he offers.

“Exactly - well, actually, she does stop by KLB fairly often and I know she hangs around with Meera and Arianne...”

They stare at each other a beat before breaking into laughter. 

“No, of course not!”

“Totally ludicrous!”

Their confidence notwithstanding, they both lapse into contemplative silence as they start eating.

After they finish, Sansa clears the plates and directs him to the television with a soft command to pick their next Netflix show. Jon gently shoves Ghost off to make room for them both and she folds herself into the couch next to him, handing over his ice cream. He finds some new sci-fi series that seems safe and not at all romantic and presses play, but they don’t even make it five minutes in before Sansa is fidgeting so noticeably beside him that he turns to her to ask her what’s going on.

She leaps off the couch like a coiled spring and begins actually pacing in front of the television. 

“I need to ask you a favour,” she says, gesturing wildly, nearly turning the Cornetto in her hand into a weapon. The intensity of her nervousness is enough to rouse Ghost, who pads around the coffee table to nudge her hip with his nose. She runs her fingers through the fur on his head absentmindedly.

“Gods, Sansa, you’re making it sound like you’re about to ask me to kill someone!”

She frowns, unimpressed by his attempt at humour, and takes a steeling breath.

“So you know Jaime’s new piece?”

He nods at her. Where is she going with this, he wonders.

“Yeah, _Cignes._ ”

“Right, exactly. So...” she tapers off into a sigh. He can’t recall the last time she’s looked this worried about something. He reaches across the table for her, taking her hand.

“Sansa, what – “

“Iwanttoaudition,” she breathes out, but she might as well be speaking another language for all he can understand. She inhales deeply and, more slowly, repeats, “I want to audition. For the lead.”

He squeezes her hand. “That’s great! You’ll be fantastic.” She returns his grip and pulls him closer so that he’s on the edge of his seat. She kneels until they’re at eye level with each other and gives him a look so doe-eyed and hopeful that he’s completely unprepared for the effect it has on him. She could ask him for his right kidney and he’d cut it out himself.

“I need a partner for the audition and I need it to be you. I mean, I hope it will be you.”

She says this as though he’s capable of giving any answer but yes. He would laugh, but then that would call attention to how desperate he is. A desperation that somehow Sansa has yet to notice if she was this concerned about asking him.

He smiles at her. “That’s not even a favour, Sansa, I’d be happy to help you. Now, I assume that if you’re asking me, you must already have this all planned out.”

The way she beams at him makes his skin feel warm and his chest feel tight. After thanking him profusely, she asks for his laptop so that she can show him the audition choreography. Jon isn’t a religious man by any means, but as he watches her traipse off towards his bedroom, red hair swinging behind her, he prays to each of the seven gods that she won’t find anything untoward when she turns it on.

His prayers are answered and the screen glows back to life with no incident. Sansa is the definition of giddy as she types her query into YouTube’s search bar and presses play.

Jon has always been reckless, driven by need and impulse since he was a child. It’s what makes him a great dancer and a better screw-up. Fight or flight and nothing in between. But since he’s been in King’s Landing and at KLB he’s been in stasis. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next fire to start. He tears his eyes away from the dancers on the screen – sensually threading in and out of each other’s arms – to glance sidelong at Sansa. Her hair is ablaze in the light of the setting sun, and with a cruel and sudden clarity, he knows that he is well and truly fucked.


End file.
